


Memories in Clay

by Keeperofate



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! Duel Monsters (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Tendershipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:14:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21675085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keeperofate/pseuds/Keeperofate
Summary: It's hard to focus on the pottery wheel when there's a handsome punk sitting opposite you.
Relationships: Bakura Ryou/Yami Bakura
Comments: 14
Kudos: 44
Collections: Yu-Gi-Oh! It's Time to G-G-G-Gift! [Mini-Exchange]





	Memories in Clay

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CursiveBlade13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CursiveBlade13/gifts).



> Hello CursiveBlade!! I'm your secret santa ^^ 
> 
> Disclaimer: Going into this, I knew nothing about pottery. I spent several hours watching videos on youtube and googling terminology, processes and the like. Even then, I'm sure this isn't completely accurate, but I do hope you enjoy it all the same! It was a lot of fun to explore a new art form through fic.

Ryou walked through the ceramics store, past the shelves of artisanal bowls, pots and plates. Each was unique, even those of the same set, the dipped coating and hand painted finish. Each had the unique touch of the potters hand. 

It was that touch that Ryou wished to emulate - a touch that could carry through time. A pot from a hundred years ago would still hold the will and emotions of its creator. The footprint of a pet in ancient Greece could be set in time, a wobbled rim still fired because the maker saw past the imperfection. A decision that would last long after their death. 

Smiling at the store-hand, he continued through the back door, a sign hanging above read _classes every Saturday!_

The back room was larger than the store itself, set up for classes and student use. There were others there, some already throwing and centring their mounds of clay, others waiting patiently for their teacher. 

Taking his seat, Ryou cleaned his wheel as he waited, watching with satisfaction as the dried clay chipped away. So distracted, he didn't notice when another took the wheel opposite him, or the nervous cough that escaped one of the veteran students. 

"Alright everyone! It's time to start - today we'll be trying a more advanced technique, and making a small teardrop vase."

Ryou glanced up at the teacher's announcement, though his eyes didn't land on her. Opposite him, sharing the same water bucket, was a man dressed all in black. His hair was shaved down on one side, the rest of his head a mess of short, ashen white locks.

He was pale - though it was hard to distinguish the makeup from his skin. His eyes were lined with black, irises an unnatural red surely achieved through contacts. Ryou could count at least five piercings on each ear, with more set on his brows and one ring through his right nostril. 

His clothes seemed eclectic, but together were a ragged punk ensemble. A torn sleeveless t-shirt, plaid pants, a leather jacket hanging on the chair behind him. Ryou stared as the stranger threw his clay cleanly to the centre of the wheel, his fingernails painted, of course, black. 

Ryou couldn't help but wonder if the acrylic would chip off into the clay. He found himself mulling over this, distracted by the strangers hands as he wet them. He was so taken by him that he missed most of the teacher's demonstration, eyes always finding their way back to the other. 

As everyone else turned to their wheel, he forced himself to focus on his own work, throwing his clay several times until he was happy with the placement. His hands were still shaky at times, he was far from a controlled potter. It took him some time to centre his clay, and when he looked up again, the punkish stranger already had the beginnings of a cylinder. 

"That's very good!" Ryou heard the teacher say as she passed behind him, and a grin stretched across the strangers face. 

"Thanks." His voice was softer than his appearance. He met Ryou's eye as he sat back, raising a pale eyebrow, a smug smile stretching over his lips. 

Ryou's clay wobbled under his hands. 

He jerked his head back down, cheeks warm as he struggled to keep it even, embarrassed that he had been caught staring. 

"Oi. You need more water."

He looked up again, and the stranger was tapping their water bucket, his wheel paused, the cylinder of clay in the centre perfectly symmetrical. 

"Right. Thank you." Ryou managed to mumble back, thoroughly mortified now. He wasn't usually _this_ bad, and he wished he could say as much as he hastily wet his hands and his clay some more. 

He was thankful when the teacher passed behind him again, offering some assistance. It was enough to distract him from the stranger, and he managed to round out his teardrop by the time the class was finished. 

He slid it onto the table with the rest of his classmates creations, eyes lingering on the strangers.

It was bigger than his, despite their clay slabs being the same size. Perhaps the walls where thinner. Risky, as it would be more likely to crack when fired. The rim was so small he doubted it would fit more than a single rose. 

Turning back, he slowly collected his bag and coat. The punk did the same opposite him, pulling his jacket on in one exaggerated motion, hair tossed back as he levelled his gaze to his. 

He'd caught him staring again. 

His eyes were really red. 

"Thanks for the help back there with the water. Your vase looks really nice" Ryou said, words tumbling out at their own accord. 

By the time he was finished the stranger was staring at him, a somewhat confused expression crossing his face. It made him look younger, the sharp angle of his cheekbones softened by his pout. 

"It's just a pot." 

"Oh." Ryou started, deflating somewhat. He wanted to tell him he thought it was much more than that. That the way he formed his clay - his hands so careful, the care and the delicacy behind it. That the finished piece said as much about him as his layers of black and plaid. But he held his tongue. 

"I suppose you're right."

"Yea." The punk had his arms crossed, and avoided his eye as he spoke. "Yours looked good too, though."

Ryou couldn't help but let out a laugh. "Thanks. I guess it's ok for a pot."

"Just use more water."

"I will." Ryou grinned, both walking towards the exit now, the other with his hands in his pockets. "I'm Ryou, by the way."

He watched as the other pushed the door open with his boot, leaning into it and holding it open for him. "Bakura."

"See you next time?" 

"Sure."

* * *

In the next class, they dipped their fired pieces in glaze. Bakura chose a deep blue, seemingly at odds with his aesthetic, though what would no doubt result in a beautiful ‘pot’ _._

Ryou struggled to speak to him further, finding it awkward to talk in the intimacy of their quiet class. Instead, he smiled at him as they worked, and received a half lifted smile in reply. He could feel him watching as he chose his colours, feeling flustered for little reason. 

Colour seemed important, but he didn’t know what he wanted from his vase - he had started the classes because he loved the idea behind the art, because he wanted to turn it into a memory. 

What did he want to remember? 

Struck by a whim, he moved to the bucket of crimson, the colour light and brownish in its uncooked form. His wobbled vase disappeared below as he dipped it, pulling it out to consider it’s coverage, the clay now tinted and pink. 

“Red isn’t really your colour.” 

Bakura had followed him to the bench, adding their bowls to the rack that would soon be sent to the kiln. Next to each other, Ryou was immediately aware of how tall the other was in his platform boots.

“I mean, blue isn’t really yours either, is it?” 

“It’s not for me.” Bakura replied simply, a ghost of a smile on his lips as he turned and walked back to the classroom.

* * *

Bakura’s vase cracked in the kiln. 

He didn’t seem perturbed by this - he collected it with a bored look, considering the lightning shaped scar that ran down the centre before laying it down in the small cardboard box they would carry their work home in. 

Ryou considered his own, the deep red mottled and shifting, grainy with pigment. It would look good with a red rose, perhaps atop a mantle. Ryou, however, had no mantle, or roses to put in it. 

Still, he put it away with care, proud all the same of the result. The uneven rim seemed artisanal now, imperfect but intentional. Even if it was really a result of Ryou’s wandering eyes. 

He glanced again at Bakura, who had put his box away in his saddle bag. When their eyes met, the punk shifted his gaze to the box in Ryou’s hand. 

“It turned out good.” His eyes where the same red as Ryou’s vase.

“Thank you,” Ryou replied, suddenly short on words. He ran his tongue about his mouth, thinking for a moment. “Even if it cracked, I still think it’s lovely.” 

“Huh?” 

“Your pot.” Ryou said, nodding to Bakura’s studded bag. The other shifted in his seat. “You know, you could try kintsugi.”

Bakura’s brows furrowed again, confused. “What?” He looked cute when he pouted.

“You can repair the crack with a gold coloured epoxy… they have some here.” Ryou continued. “I actually went to a class for it. You know, it’s why I first started. I just think it’s… so interesting, to highlight the damage rather than hide it, and to tell a story with it. I’m sure whoever your giving it to will love it.” He paused, and Bakura was staring at him, expression unreadably neutral. He felt his cheeks heat, embarrassed by his own rambling. “Anyway,” 

“Maybe I’ll try it out.” Bakura replied, lips twisting with a wry smile. Ryou smiled back.

“I’m excited to see how it turns out.” 

* * *

“We’ll be making a set of plates and bowls for you to take home. Think about how you’ll carry your style throughout.” The teacher said, beginning the class, and Ryou looked up from his off centre clay. 

There were several empty seats, it was close to the holidays and few people had time to attend. Bakura hadn’t been since they’d finished their pots. 

It was hard for Ryou to ignore the disappointment in his chest, missing the sight of him on the opposite wheel, struck by the memory of him when he came home to see his small, wobbled red vase on his coffee table. 

He thought of him as he watched the teacher demonstrate, eyes wandering to where the other usually sat - 

At the back of the room, the door opened, and he sauntered in. Platform boots and ripped leather pants, his short hair longer now on one side, but still shaved down on the other. Very fashionably late. Ryou grinned at him as he sat down. Bakura grinned back. 

He felt jittery now. Whenever he reached for more water, Bakura’s hand would be there too, close to touching. He met his eye several times, finding it hard to ignore the amusement that glinted in that crimson, and shook his head playfully.

“I’m taking your advice. More water, right?” Ryou asked as the class drew close to its end. 

“Right.” Bakura replied, his tongue was sticking out as he used a tool to bevel out the bottom of his bowel. “Looking good,” he added as he paused his wheel, glancing at Ryou’s work. 

Ryou smiled, looking down at the plate. It did look much better than his first attempts. Bakura’s low voice broke his mulling. 

“You know, I took your advice too.” 

“Oh?” He looked up, and Bakura was bent over, shuffling around in the bag at his feet. He could hear the teacher reminding them of their remaining ten minutes. “I did that thing you said.” 

He had pulled out the box, looking more used now than it had the weeks prior. Ryou stared as he opened it carefully, the tissue paper inside pushed away to reveal the mended vase. 

He had used a silver colour, rather than a gold. It trickled down the azure sides like water, the place it had been broken now shimmering and repaired even better than before. Ryou could feel himself grinning. 

“It’s beautiful.” 

“Yea.”

He looked back up, and Bakura was looking at him, crimson eyes widening as their gazes met. Ryou could feel his cheeks heating. Bakura glanced back down at his work.

“You want it?” He barely heard him, his usually loud tones now soft. 

“I-” 

“Ok everyone, it’s time to pack up!” 

They both jumped as the teacher walked by, and Ryou laughed a bit, jittery with nerves. There was nothing else for it, and Bakura put the vase away. They collected their plates, going together and placing them on the shelf, and then collecting their bags. 

Ryou followed him to the door, Bakura poking it open with his boot, and they left through the front together and into the mid afternoon street. 

“Hey,” Ryou smiled, turning to him, making sure the other didn’t run away.

“Yea?” Bakura stood slouched, his eyes meeting his for a moment before refocusing on the street around them. In the afternoon sun, the hints of brown at the edge of his contacts where more prominent. Ryou laughed despite himself. 

“Well, she sort of interrupted us back there. The teacher.” 

Bakura snorted, “Yea, it goes too damn fast.” 

“It does,” Ryou agreed, smiling at him. He found himself nervously pushing hair behind his ear, and forced his hands to his side. “I was thinking, actually. Well. How you said back there - I mean, you _asked_ , if i’d like your vase.” He swallowed, fully aware of his own rambling. “Because you know, when I made mine, I couldn’t think of a colour. And then I met your eye and well, it just seems like it would suit you better, right-?” 

Bakura had started laughing, trying to smother it with his hand but failing. He chuckled brightly, grinning with his teeth and finally looking at him again, cheeks red. He hadn’t worn his makeup that day. 

“You’re cute.” 

Ryou made an involuntary noise, cheeks burning and chest alight with nerves. It was enough to make him forget what he’d been meaning to say. So, instead he blurted out - “So are you.” 

They stared at each other. For the first time, Ryou was immediately aware of how contrasting they must have seemed. Bakura in his black and plaid and leather, and Ryou wearing his white blue jeans and pastel blue sweater. He laughed again, lighter this time. Bakura stared like he’d slapped him. 

“So, should we swap vases, then?” 

* * *

A vase would stay as it was the day the potter made it, long after they were gone. Even when worn by time, the shape would remain the same, the memory of its maker's hands set in clay. 

Ryou thought of this as he unpacked their vases carefully, mottled red and azure blue, and placed them thoughtfully on their new mantle, the pair oddly matched. 

One was asymmetric and wobbled, the other petite and broken, repaired with care. 

Their friends always confused who had made which. 

"Dammit!" 

Somewhere in the apartment behind him, Bakura swore as he tried to reassemble their Ikea bed, and Ryou grinned to himself, turning briefly and calling out. 

"Do you need help?" 

"No!" 

He laughed a bit, shaking his head, and placed a fake rose in each vase, one red and one blue. He stepped back to consider it. 

Even now, they were already holding their memories. Of their meeting, of their feelings. 

He hoped there were many more to come. 

  
  
  



End file.
